


Tempest's Calling

by ChromeHearts



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Angst, Dark Fantasy, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Science Fiction, Stormpilot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-15 07:33:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5776999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChromeHearts/pseuds/ChromeHearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finn and Poe had very different ideas of forever. One lived in the moment, taking each second as it came. The other preferred to wait for the perfect opportunity. But when the First Order unleashes their super weapon and death is upon them, their forever could only mean minutes. Time runs from those who hold their breath, but stands still for those who let go.</p>
<p>"I don't understand," Finn said, his voice and heart were breaking. He lifted his gaze, his eyes met Poe's, desperate for answers. "Why are you doing this to me?"<br/>"Because," Poe replied, his voice sounded detached. He turned his back to the one that he held in his heart, allowing his shoulders to slump. "It's the right thing to do."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bred for War

For as long as he could remember, FN-2187 had called Starkiller Base his home. He knew not of a world outside the ice-capped mountains and the snow covered plateaus of his home planet. He knew not of warmth, nor of family, nor of what way of life lay beyond the icy reaches of the planet. 

He had a family, that much he knew – but what they were like, he was not sure. FN-2187 did not know what it was like to love, nor to be loved in return. The warmth of a hug, a simple comfort to most, when he was at his lowest of lows. To have somebody to genuinely care about him. It was something completely foreign to him – a myth he only read about in novels. 

To him, it was normal to not know your parents, or your past – who you really were. It was a way of life. 

There was only one – tiny – window in each sleeping quarter, and more often than not, it was a space shared by up to six other troopers. FN-2187 was lucky enough to be stationed right next to the small, rectangular window and would often spend his nights with his knees drawn up to his chest, staring through the frosted glass and up at the bleak, starless sky. 

Each night, he dreamed of a world beyond the ice and snow; beyond the mass of numbers whom he walked alongside, the select few he called friends, each trooper programmed to conform. He dreamed of warmth, of the sun on his skin; of a world where there was no destruction, no violence and no blasters.

He would dream of being one, a sole entity - his own creation, his own person. But, most of all, there was the longing for being one of two. 

There had to be more to life than this glacial planet, and FN-2187 was willing to do anything to keep that hope, that little spark in his heart alive.

_____________

 

He wasn’t built for combat, that much was obvious. Not only did he know it, but the other Stormtroopers – even the Captain – knew it well and more often than not, it made him the target of their frustration. FN-2187 bore the brunt of their harsh critique or malicious tongues. 

He was a failure as a Stormtrooper; A solider of war, who has spent his entire life training, leading up to one very precise moment, who struggled to use a firearm. 

 

FN-2187 wasn’t made to fight; he wasn’t made to kill. In fact, he knew deep down that when he, along with his squadron, were sent on their first mission, there was no way that he would be able to take the life of another, regardless of whether the First Order willed it or not.

He would much rather face Kylo Ren’s rage – or even that of Captain Phasma – than kill for anyone. As fatal as that may prove, that was the price he was willing to pay.

_____________

 

“FN-2187,” a distorted, almost robotic voice snapped him out of his trance. Almost immediately, the trooper felt his heart rate increase, his palms clammy. What had he done this time?

“Yes, Captain?” he replied, his voice wavering. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet the gleaming silver helmet of his superior.

“You are still hesitating,” Phasma said, circling him slowly as though she were a cunning hunter, cutting off her prey. “Why?”

There was no denying it. His blaster hung limply at his side; the ache of the weapon’s previous recoil still burned his muscles. He had stopped, right in the middle of their training whilst his squadron had continued the gruelling exercise, seemingly immune to the exhaustion that plagued him. FN-2187 was strong, yes. He had stamina – to an extent. The same as any man. But the rigorous drills and exhausting exercises were taking their toll on his body.

FN-2187 didn’t have to be able to see his Captain’s face to know that her lips had curled upwards into a snarl. Her eyes, he was certain, were narrowed in a perfect combination of extreme disgruntlement and antipathy. 

His squadron had moved away from him, allowing room for Phasma to continue to circle her prey, to completely cut him off. A long silence fell between them as FN-2187 bowed his head and waited, his breath held, to hear of his punishment. 

The steady chinking of Captain Phasma’s armour slowed and her pacing stopped, coming to a complete halt in front of the lone trooper.

“Funny, isn’t it? It matters little how much effort you put into training a dog when there is always the chance that he will turn on you. Only, it seems as though this particular dog is of no threat to his master.”

FN-2187 winced at the pernicious nickname, but did not utter a word in response. Did his Captain think of him as a lowly beast?

“A Stormtrooper who cannot follow orders,” Phasma mused, her tongue sharp. “I will not allow your behaviour to become detrimental to your squadron – or to myself.”

Phasma paused, tucking her arms behind her back; the ebony cape that was fastened around one shoulder was reflected on her gleaming armour as though it was a shifting tendril, wrapping its way around her. 

“Tell me FN-2187,” she began, her voice low, almost dangerous. “Do you know why you are here? Do you know why you have come to be a Stormtrooper?”

At this, the lone trooper lifted his head and met his Captain’s gaze levelly. Even though he, too, wore a helmet, FN-2187 narrowed his eyes in determination, his fists found themselves balling together tightly at the topic. It was common knowledge how a Stormtrooper came to be on Starkiller Base. What satisfaction would Phasma gain by asking him a question that she knew he could answer?

“Yes, Captain,” he said slowly, trying to convince himself he was calm. “I do.”

Phasma grinned wickedly from under her helmet and took a step towards the other. “Tell me,” she challenged. 

“We were taken,” FN-2187 began. “All of us – still new to this universe and we were taken. Taken here.”

“Yes,” Phasma acknowledged. “You were taken. That much I cannot deny. However, it was willed.”

“Willed?” FN-2187 asked, resisting the urge to shake his head. He could sense that his squadron had moved closer, closing rank around their Captain and fellow trooper, desperate to catch more of the conversation. “Willed by whom, Captain? The First Order? Leader Snoke?”

“Your parents,” she replied coldly. “You cannot think that there are not people – entire systems – outside of Starkiller Base who do not support the First Order? No,” Phasma shook her head, taking another step towards the trooper. She was now so close that FN-2187 could see the distorted reflection of his helmet in her armour. “Each and every one of you – taken because your parents willed it.”

FN-2187 felt the colour drain from his face. That was not possible – they had been taken, stolen if you will, from their families as infants. Phasma had to be lying; some kind of cruel tactic to bring him back in line - to elicit a sense of betrayal, all in hope that it will either drive him to succeed in order to fulfil his parents’ wish or spark a hatred towards them that will fuel his anger, pushing him to succeed.

His squadron remained completely silent, either in shock or disbelief, he did not know. Perhaps they were fighting against this revelation, trying desperately to cling on to the hope that their parents did not surrender them to a lifetime of torture and pain; of not knowing what it was like to be human or to be tied down to a particular fate with a name.

“Why?” Was all that he could manage; his voice wavered as he spoke but he did not care to correct himself. 

Phasma adjusted her onyx cloak, as if contemplating allowing the trooper the satisfaction of clarity. Finally she fixed her helmeted gaze back on him, and a feeling of unease churned in the pit of the troopers stomach. It felt like an eternity had passed under Phasma’s icy gaze when finally, the Captain turned on her heel and strode towards the door of the training hall.

“The reasons are varied, albeit few,” she said, stopping a few feet away from the hydraulic door. Shooting a look over her shoulder, she watched the trooper carefully for any signs of defeat or emotion. “Some want a sense of aegis – reassurance that the servitude of their child would mean they have the First Order’s protection. Others want money or power. Your parents, FN-2187 seemed quite relieved in just the fact that you would not be around.”

FN-2187 did not wait for his common sense to kick in – for the little voice in the back of his head to tell him that going against his Captain was a bad idea. Fists clenched so tightly that he was sure that his nails had punctured the flesh of his palms, he took a step forward.

“Liar!” 

“FN-2187,” Phasma drawled, as though the enraged Stormtroopers’ actions could not possibly harm her. After all, he was the weakest link – the downfall of his squadron. “Report to area fourteen for reconditioning immediately.

_____________

 

 

To say that FN-2187 had braced himself for what was to come would be a lie. He had prepared himself, both mentally and physically, for pain but it was nothing close to what he was experiencing currently. Torture was the only word that could even come close to describing Captain Phasma’s reconditioning, however it was not her conducting the punishment.

Instead, the silver clad Captain had merely stood to the side, observing the punishment; the pain inflicted upon the young Stormtrooper. For too long did she stand stationary, unmoving, relishing in the agonised cries of her subordinate. 

FN-2187’s helmet had been removed, allowing Phasma the satisfaction of seeing his face, covered with blood and sweat, distorted in pain as he was subjected to his reclamation.

She allowed this to carry on for a good deal of an hour before she held up a hand, signalling the reconditioning to come to a halt. “Enough.”

FN-2187 was bloodied and bruised, his chest heaving from the pain as he attempted to regain his breath; every inhalation filled his chest with a white-hot burning sensation. He was imbrued, but he was not yet broken. 

“Take him to holding cell 763. It is time that he thinks about what it means to truly swear your allegiance to the First Order.”


	2. A new kind of Stormtrooper

Come the end of his reclamation, FN-2187 was but a shell of his past self. He was desperate to break free of the rigid caste that encased his mind, to be able to fight for his own cause – do what he thought was right. But he could not.

With his back against the smooth, cold metal of his holding cell, he tilted his gaze upwards; there were no windows in the tiny room, no possible way to tell the time of day or to keep track of any measure of time. It seemed to stand still in the cell; the emptiness enhanced only by the unavoidable silence that seemed to weigh him down.

FN-2187 didn’t utter a word. Instead, with his teeth gritted together, he rolled his shoulders, wincing in pain as the edges of the lesions on his back pulled themselves apart as the muscle beneath shifted. 

His signature white armour had been removed for the purpose of reconditioning, leaving the trooper with only a black undershirt and trousers. The holding cell was cold, the overhead florescent light flickering on and off, filling the room with a weak light, but FN-2187 did not move. His body burned, despite the chill of the room. 

Closing his eyes, FN-2187 tilted his head forward, one knee drawn to his chest, the other stretched out in front of him. He could hear the sound of his shallow breaths and the cacophonous beating of his heart, of which had slowed down considerably since being taken to the holding cell. 

FN-2187 frowned. There was something else he could hear – it was quite distant, but what? Footsteps? Yes. It had a distinct rhythm to it; discordant, as though whomever these footsteps belonged to was in a hurry. Could it be one of his squadron coming to release him? Or perhaps it was Phasma – or worse, Kylo Ren – coming to continue his torture.

The lone Stormtrooper held his breath and listened as the footfalls echoed around the metal corridor that lead to his cell. The footsteps slowed as they drew nearer, coming to a halt outside of the hydraulic cell door. There was a small pause, in which everything was completely silent, the deep breath before the storm, and FN-2187, with his gaze now fixed on the door, did not move a muscle.

A soft click broke the silence, the door now unlocked, before it sprang to life, shooting upwards into the ceiling. 

FN-2199 stood in the doorway, his expression impossible to read from underneath his helmet and his body language offered nothing in the way of answers. 

“Nines!” FN-2187 grinned, trying his best to clamber to his feet at the sight of one of his squadron. He wasn't sure why Nines had come, or what reason the other had being anywhere near the holding cells, but it did show him some comfort to see the other there with him. “What are you doing here?”

“What a sorry sight,” Nines replied, scanning the surrounds of the holding cell, and then the bloodied Stormtrooper. “Look at what you have become, 2187. You're a disgrace.” 

FN-2187 felt his heart sink. Nines had not come to release him, instead the other trooper, his own squad member, had come to mock him. Turning his head away from the cell door, he fixed his attention instead on the flickering fluorescent light overhead, his face hardened and teeth grit together. 

“What do you really want?” He asked, voice low. When the Stormtrooper did not respond, he continued: “Do not tell me that you have come all this way just to ridicule me?”

Again, FN-2199 remained silent. 

“Or could it be perhaps that you, Nines, miss me?”

“Don't flatter yourself,” came the immediate response, the Stormtrooper’s voice, despite his helmet, harsh. “I came only to pass on a message.”

“Which you've not done,” FN-2187 replied bitterly. “Looks like I am not the only one who can't follow orders.”

Nines stepped into the cell, his grip around his blaster tightening. “Do not compare me with you,” he snarled. “I came here to let you know that Ren has requested to see the Trooper who tried to attack Captain Phasma.”

“ _Attack?_ But – “

“Do not underestimate his furore, 2187. If you survive his visit, maybe then you will consider actually doing what you were raised to do.” 

 

_____________

 

“Captain,” FN-2187 said instinctively as the silver Stormtrooper entered the holding cell, her arms tucked lazily behind her back. He heaved himself up off the floor, trying his best not to grunt when the skin around his lacerations pulled and a white hot pain washed through his body. 

“Do you know why I am here?” she asked, taking in the surrounds of the metal cell. FN-2187 could have guessed – Ren wanted to see him. Phasma was here to walk him down the green mile; accompany him to his demise – but he was not certain whether Phasma was aware Nines had visited him earlier. So instead, he kept quiet. 

It took several moments before FN-2187 realised that the battered reflection in Phasma’s armour was him. In fact, it was the first time he could actually see the damage that had been inflicted upon him; dried blood flaked at his temples, his brow and lip had been cut. A mosaic of bruises of varying colour and outlined his face and neck. 

“Do you?” Phasma repeated, agitated now, taking a step towards the Stormtrooper. This time, he shook his head. 

“No, Captain.”

Phasma remained silent for a long moment as though considering the answer and FN-2187 was certain that she did not believe him. And why should she? He had quite the reputation of knowing things, or at the very least, thinking he did.

“Kylo Ren wanted to see you,” she said, although from the tone in her voice, FN-2187 could tell that she was not concerned with his wellbeing, rather, her status within the Order. “Word got out that I had a Stormtrooper on my hands that was disobedient, lazy – did not care for the First Order.”

Captain Phasma clenched her fists together tightly as she stared down at the wounded Stormtrooper. “You will be relieved to know that I informed him that he had misheard; that these were just rumours. In doing that, I have spared your life.” 

She paused, paying careful attention to the other’s expression before stooping down to meet his eye level. “Do not for a second think that I did this to let you live,” she said. “No. I will not allow your blatant inability to become what you were made to be put my role as Captain in jeopardy. I will make anyone who thinks that it is because of my guidance that you are a failure as a Stormtrooper regret the day they ever thought that.”

She straightened herself up, turning away from FN-2187. “That includes _Kylo Ren_ ,” she added, her tone like ice. 

FN-2187 watched his Captain stalk out of the holding cell. He waited for the hydraulic door to shoot back down into the flooring before sliding back down the wall of the cell once more. He was alive. He had escaped the wrath of Kylo Ren. But it wasn’t because Phasma wanted to spare his life. Had her reputation, her position within the First Order not been on the line, she would have gladly allowed Kylo to kill him.

Closing his eyes, FN-2187 exhaled. If he wanted to stay alive, he was going to have to do everything he could. 

 

_____________

 

It was at least a week before FN-2187 was allowed outside the holding cell; before he could finally feel the freshness of the breeze on his skin. But he did not let these simple pleasures stand in the way of his goal.

With his blaster clutched tightly in one hand, the Stormtrooper ducked his way under low hanging branches and wove his way through the thick clusters of pines. Freshly fallen snow shifted under his boots, every other footfall seemed to puncture the snow, forcing the Stormtrooper to sink calf deep in the snow. 

This endurance training was nothing like he had ever done before; every ounce of strength he could muster went into keeping up with, and outdoing his squadron. 

The lenses-telemetry on his helmet provided a continuous stream of data regarding the environment that surrounded him. Shooting a backwards glance over his shoulder, the telemetry projected the exact distance between him and his squadron; their heart rates accelerated as they tried desperately to keep pace with him. 

Advancing up the icy slope towards their target, FN-2187’s pace slowed out of both exhaustion and an attempt to allow his squadron to catch up. Cresting the slope first, he bent over, his hands on his knees, eager to regain his breath. The Stormtrooper’s lungs burned with effort as they took in the frosty air, his heart still felt as though it were in his throat. His trousers and undershirt were sodden, the snow soaking through the fabric and sticking to his skin and his armour did very little to protect him from the elements.

It was several minutes later before the first of his troop, FN-2000, or Zeroes as he liked to be called, crested the slope, one hand clutching his side. He came to a halt next to his squad member.

“Who are you?” he managed to ask between pants. “And what have you done with our 2187?”

FN-2187 couldn’t stop himself. He knew that Zeroes would not be able to see, but he could not hide the grin that spread across his face. A member of the squadron – Zeroes, known to excel in this kind of endurance training – had acknowledged the hard work he had put into the test.

It was FN-2003, or Slip as they had nicknamed him due to his clumsy and often light hearted demeanour, who was next to crest, trying his hardest to keep his footing on the frozen slope. He waved at Zeroes and 2187 enthusiastically, offering the pair a thumbs up when he reached their side. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of waiting, shivering in the arctic breeze, Nines came slowly into view, clawing his way up the side of the slope. Once managing to straighten himself upright, he re-joined the waiting squadron, but did not say a word. Instead, he kept his back to FN-2187, eager to not face him.

Exhaling deeply, FN-2187 allowed his shoulders to slump as he closed the small distance between himself and FN-2199. Placing a hand on his forearm, he squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of Nine’s face from through his helmets visor.

Much to FN-2187’s chagrin, the other twisted his arm away. Taking the hint, he turned to face the rest of the squadron.

“It’s okay, Nines,” he said, quietly enough for only the one trooper to hear. “I don’t think you’re a disgrace.”


	3. He who commanded the stars

The night was cool, yet there was no breeze. The sky was a deep ink blue, small clusters of stars twinkled in the moonlight. Poe Dameron sat atop a fallen tree, his legs stretched the length of the trunk. With his head tilted upwards up towards the heavens, Poe sat in a thoughtful silence. 

His Astromech droid, BB-8 ventured a few yards away from the fallen tree trunk, its dome shape head and antenna only just managed to skim the tops of the grass. A content hum escaped the droid as it rocked back and forth, almost as though he were purring. The orange and white droid mirrored his master’s actions, his head rolled backwards on his circular body, his single eye like photoreceptor observing the starry night. 

A sigh passed through Poe’s lips and he swung his legs over the side of the tree trunk. Dragging the tips of his fingers through his hair, Poe cussed quietly. Instinctively, his droid swivelled on its axis and rolled towards him, beeping loudly.

“Beebee-Ate,” Poe began as his droid bumped into his leg. He hadn’t known the Astromech for very long but already, he was more than fond of it. Poe was sure that BB-8, too, was fond of him. 

The droid had come to him broken, physically and emotionally. It was out-dated and ridiculed by its previous owner; Poe had lost count of the hours he had invested fixing the Astromech, or the days he spent coaxing it gently out of its easily frightened shell. His companion was still skittish, but the trust that it had for its master, the bond it shared with him could not be so easily broken. 

Lowering his hand as the droid went to bump into his leg again, Poe cushioned the impact with his hand. “I’m alright, my friend.”

BB-8 beeped again, not believing Poe for a second, but resolved to roll away nonetheless, its dome-like head backwards, a concerned hum escaping it and photoreceptor eye fixed on the pilot.

It took quite at lot to unnerve Poe Dameron, the courageous Starfleet Commander for the New Republic. Not even the prospect of his own death could strike a sense of fear or unease in his heart. Poe was bold and daring, as all Commanders venturing into the unknown were. 

However, the one thing that managed to make his stomach churn with ease was the thought of leading his squadron to their demise. His squadron trusted him fully, nor did they question his command. The last thing Poe wanted – and perhaps, the only thing he actually feared – was losing the lives of those he truly cared about.  
Poe watched his droid disappear in the grass before he turned his head up to look at the stars once more. The night was long and he was anxious. It was always like this before they were deployed on missions to patrol the Mirrin sector trade lanes after reports of piracy reached the Republic Base. Whenever this news reached Poe’s ears, he would lie awake the night before, fearing that if he made one wrong decision, the lives of his comrades, of the Rapier Squadron would be lost.

“Beebee-Ate?” he called softly and, half a second later, the orange and white dome head of his droid emerged from a sea of long grass. “Would you trust me, even if I doubted myself?”

BB-8 chirped reassuringly, rolling to his masters side. 

“Why?” Poe asked after a few moments pause. BB-8 beeped again, nudging into his shin. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward so that BB-8 did not have to look up at him. 

“When I was very little, my mother told me that the reason why she joined the Republic was because people were hurting – they were suffering and she could not just sit around and watch.” Poe paused, a chagrin expression on his face. “What if people hurt because of me? What if they suffer because of the decisions I make? I don’t wish that upon any of them.”

A soft whistle escaped the droid as it swivelled on its axis. BB-8 knew his master was worried, but also knew he could trust Poe completely – even with life itself.  
“Do you really think so?” Poe asked, listening to his friend. Reaching out, he placed a hand gently atop BB-8’s head. “Thanks, buddy.”

_

Rapier Squadron had left hyperspace, the stars still settling around them and already, Poe Dameron, Starfleet commander was bored. They had patrolled these laneways for weeks and nothing interesting ever seemed to happen. Today was no different from any other day.

“Tell me,” Karè Kun’s voice crackled into the cockpit of his T-85 X-wing. It was monotonous and sounded as equally as bored as he. “Do space pirates actually frequent the Mirrin sector or are we just babysitting these people because of a myth?”

Poe didn't respond. He knew Karè wasn't looking for an answer, only a means to vent her frustration at being deployed for the fifth week straight to a system that held little to no action whatsoever. 

From his socket in the side of the X-wing, BB-8 burbled happily to itself, the Astromech’s head rotating this way and that, as though it were stargazing; daydreaming. Poe’s lips tugged upwards into a small smile. The little droid had a personality of its very own, quite childlike and naïve. Briefly, he wondered what the little droid was thinking. 

Occasionally, information blinked across monitor in the cockpit, one designed to translate the binary in which the Astromech's spoke, not that Poe needed one to understand BB-8.

The droid continue to burble to itself, incoherent to its master, whilst Poe picked out small pieces of information that the mech was sharing with him.

The Mirrin Sector is a trade populated by all kinds of freighters used to transport particulars large amounts of goods from one end of the galaxy to the next. Heavier freighters are often slow and have very little in the way of defence and so often required an escort. Some notable escorts of heavy freighters included the Milennium Falcon and the Ghost, which-

“Alright, Beebee-Ate,” Poe interrupted and the binary translation on the monitor disappeared. “I get it. Can you see anything interesting?”

The droid whirled his head to look at his master as though Poe had asked if he was purple and white, not orange. A single, somewhat sarcastic chirp escaped the droid before his head rotated back to look out at the ships passing through the Mirrin Sector.

The constellation Apollo was first discovered by scout –

“Okay, yes,” Poe sighed. “That's definitely interesting. Beebee-Ate, I'll see what I can do about taking you to get a closer look at the constellation after we've finished up here, alright?”

BB-8 burbled its excitement. 

“But for now,” Poe said. “Can I get you to scan the area? Keep an eye out for anything unusual, please buddy.”

A chirp from BB-8 meant that it was time to work and turned his dome like head this way and that, his photoreceptor eye scanning all passing freighters. 

“This has got to be one of the most boring systems,” Muran grumbled, his static voice filling the X-wing’s cockpit. The pilot heaved a heavy sigh and leaned back as best he could, the safety belts secured around his chest and shoulders constricted with the sudden jolt of movement. “Why won't something happen already?”

“My apologies,” Poe responded, before he could stop himself. “In future, I will be sure to send an invitation to the Guavian’s. Maybe we can all have a picnic.”

The sound of laughter came through the radio; first it was Karè’s, then she was joined by Iolo. 

“Sounds lovely,” Muran replied and Poe did not have to see his friend to know that he was smiling. “Maybe we can invite the Kage marauders, too. It’ll be a party.”

-

 

A scream escaped BB-8 and were it not for the harnesses that held him in place, Poe would have jumped right out of his seat in shock. It was not the scream of a droid in pain, nor was it the sound a droid makes before they die – both of which Poe was familiar with, and he hoped he would never have to hear BB-8 make those noises.

Instead, it was a scream of alarm, his head rotating immediately to face Poe, a string of incoherent, fast paced burbles reached the Starfleet Commander’s ears. Even the binary translator struggled to keep up with the Astromech, the correspondence disjointed.

“Beebee-Ate,” Poe said, almost as quickly as the droid was babbling. “Slow down, what did you pick up?” His heart was racing and his hands felt themselves wrap tightly around the control stick of the X-Wing.

The information that BB-8 had shared appeared on his screen once more as the droid struggled to transmit the data slow enough for the pilot to keep up with. Yissira Zyde, the information read, a NK-Witell-class freighter was in trouble. BB-8 had picked up its distress call and, seconds after the data had disappeared from the display monitor, a loud blast of static filled the cockpit, followed by the broken, stained voice of the Zyde’s captain.

Poe reached for the intercom, speaking as calmly as possible into the X-Wing’s microphone. “Looks like we’ve got our party, guys,” he said. “But I don’t think it’ll be with the Marauders.” He turned to the orange and white droid, stationed in the Astromech socket just behind the cockpit. “Beebee-Ate, send all data to the Squadron.” 

BB-8 chirped once in response before focusing his attention on sharing what he had picked up with the other X-Wings. 

“Alright,” Poe said after the distress call had come to an abrupt halt. He shot a sideways glance at his droid. “Can you get a fix on their location, Beebee-Ate? Transmit it to all Rapiers, please.”

Again, the little droid chirped his response before putting all of his effort into what Poe had asked. The cockpit’s monitor came alive, a map of the Mirrin Sector came onto the digital display, BB-8 working as hard as he could to hone in on the location of the distress call. Poe waited on the edge of his seat as the little droid worked as fast as he could. 

Then suddenly, BB-8 gave a triumphant chirp. He had done it. The exact location of the distress call finally isolated isolated.

“Alright guys, we got it. Suraz 4. All Rapiers – hyperspace. Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finn is easier to write about orz  
> Sorry if things seem a little off with this, I tried my best. Star Wars: Before the Awakening was used as a reference. Mostly for the back story of the Zyde and also for parts and names of the X-Wing and its fighting style, aha.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few things I'd like to note. First and foremost, nowhere (be that in the film, online resources or any companion novel) actually state that Stormtroopers being 'taken' does not mean 'kidnapped'. So I thought I'd play around with that.
> 
> Second, Poe x Finn will happen soon. Not necessarily in the next few chapters, but soon enough. 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


End file.
